


Operation Pon Farr

by RembrandtsWife



Series: Code Name Fanfic [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Background Character Death, Background Poly, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 01:45:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1410397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/RembrandtsWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"James Bond. What the bloody hell are you doing?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation Pon Farr

**Author's Note:**

> Well, another Bond/Q story, and another Code Name Fanfic story. Thanks to nookienostradamus for beta. There's an Eve/Mallory story in the works.
> 
> Possible triggers: Some violence in a sexual context occurs off-stage and is reported by Bond. It involves Bond but not Q. There is a threat of rape/noncon between Bond and Q, but it does not occur. This is a very hurty story, for me, but also a very comforty one.

Q had wanted very much to be a Vulcan when he was an adolescent. He had watched Doctor Who, of course, in reruns, and Star Trek: The Next Generation, ennobled by the great Patrick Stewart, but he had secretly loved the Original Series best. Never mind the DayGlo colours, the scanty skirts on the women, William Shatner's tortured gestures: It was Spock that kept Q riveted to the screen when he caught an episode. He wanted to be Spock, who was not only smarter than everyone else on the ship, but also stronger and faster, able to go without sleep for days when he wanted to concentrate, able to contain his emotions.

He also wanted to *do* Spock. And Uhura. And watch them have sex with one another. This helped him a good deal in understanding that he was fairly even-handedly bisexual.

Wishing he were Vulcan had not increased his physical strength, but he had a natural ability to stay up for long periods and to concentrate on things of interest with a Zen master's one-pointed attention. These abilities had facilitated his promotion to Quartermaster of MI6, and they certainly came in handy on the job, especially when a certain Agent 007 was on a mission. But even a Vulcan must reach his limit eventually, and Q had reached his during Bond's most recent fiasco. He'd survived longer than most people would on the strength of short power naps coupled with high-grade Earl Grey lavender, and now he was taking two days' leave with the intention of doing nothing more than eating, sleeping, and emptying out what he ingested.

He woke abruptly in the middle of his first night home with a double-O agent in his bed.

Q jerked awake and nearly hit the panic button on his nightstand. The hands that touched him were hot and clumsy, and there was a powerful odor of whiskey, smotheringly close. His flailing hand found the lamp instead; he switched it on and stared at Bond, fully clothed and half on top of him.

"James Bond. What the bloody hell are you doing?"

Bond's eyes were blue marbles in pits of red sand. His mouth was loose and unpleasantly moist. He smelt not only of whiskey but of sweat, stale cologne, gunpowder residue. He had obviously just returned from that horrid mission and, instead of debriefing and going to medical or somewhere sensible, had headed for Q's bed, after getting disgustingly drunk.

Since he and Eve had first included Bond in one of their dinner and sex evenings, Bond had joined them again on two occasions. And Q had continued to see Eve every few weeks, if not quite so often as before the Bond caper. (He suspected she was seducing Mallory, but she was stubbornly remaining silent on the matter.) But Bond had not solicited Q alone, and he was pretty certain he would know if the agent had been with Eve, either. Eve and Q had so far been a two-for-one deal for James.

Q groped for his glasses, put them on, and studied Bond. He had retreated to the edge of the bed and was now sitting with his back to Q, not talking, not moving. Well. It had been a hellacious mission, certainly; what had happened that Q had not seen or heard?

He patted Bond on the arm. "You ought to have a shower. I'll make us some tea."

He slid out of bed and popped into the loo to piss. Bond had not moved at all when he was done. He was slumped over, hands between his thighs, as if even raising them to his face was too much effort. Q took the man by both shoulders, and said, in the cool firm tones that had worked on Bond at their first meeting, "Shower, James. You stink. I'll be in the kitchen."

He waited until Bond got up to leave the bedroom, and until he heard the shower running to flick on the kettle and rummage for the mint teabags. He had honey, too, a jar of buckwheat and a jar of lavender; he put them both on the counter.

Bond appeared in his kitchen silent as a ghost, wearing a pair of Q's pyjama bottoms. They were a reasonable fit, as he was nearly Bond's height and usually wore loose drawstring trousers. He probably did not have a single article of clothing that could accommodate that magnificent torso.

"Tea's ready, and I've got honey--"

Anything else he might have said was smothered under the crush of Bond's mouth on his. Q flailed, and Bond seized him by the hips and held him, plundering his mouth. He was going to have bruises tomorrow, and possibly a split lip, and it wasn't supposed to be like this. Bond hadn't been like this with him, with Eve; he'd been friendly, and playful, and he'd let them take care of him, and there was simply no air to get the words out, to say any of these things.

Bond pulled his mouth away and Q felt the scrape of teeth, the sting of his lip opening up. Bond looked into his face with a slick, glazed satisfaction devoid of any kind of recognition, and then turned him round and pushed him down against the table.

The smooth heavy wood smelled of oil and garlic and the ghosts of herbs. This butcher block table, where Q had served homemade pizza to Bond and Eve, where he had watched Bond eat with unexpected sensual pleasure. Bond fumbled clumsily at Q's pyjamas, grasped, and tore; as Bond growled and the pyjama bottoms drifted down his legs, Q realized he was very close to being raped over his own kitchen table.

"James. James!" The thick head of Bond's cock nudged his buttock, crude and dry. "James, don't do this. No. NO."

He felt movement behind him and held still, gathering his muscles as best he could. He had some self-defense training, but any blow he could strike now, from this position, would be feeble at best. But the movement was repeated, then Bond's gripping hands slipped away. Q looked over his shoulder, saw Bond backing away, and straightened up.

Bond stumbled against a chair and sank into it, his hands finally coming up to his face. "No. I'm sorry. What-- Christ, I almost-- I'm sorry. I can't do this. I won't do this. Not any more. Not any more." He was shaking as if with cold.

Q gathered his courage and his dignity and approached Bond, dropping his pyjama jacket to lie with the ruined bottom. "James. It's all right. I'm all right. You didn't rape me. I'm all right. You stopped. You *stopped*. Now, listen. You need to hydrate. And get warm."

"Do you have any whiskey?" Bond interrupted, his speech slurring, desperate.

"No more whiskey." _Not tonight, not ever if I had my way_ , Q thought. "I made tea. And I have some biscuits. You're in shock and we need to deal with that."

At least he's not bleeding, he thought as he steered Bond back to the bedroom and coaxed him under the covers to get warm. He grabbed a dressing gown and went back to the kitchen. His bruises were already starting to ache, but they could wait. He reheated the mugs of tea in the microwave, then searched the cupboards till he found some Hobnobs and some chocolate chip cookies Eve had brought to their last movie night. He arranged his remedies on a tray and went back to the bedroom, bracing himself for whatever he might find. 

Bond had at least stayed put. He was sitting up against the pillows, hands turned up in his lap, staring at nothing with that disturbing blank gaze. Q put the tray on the bed, climbed in under the covers himself, and put a warm mug into Bond's slack hand.

"Mint tea," he said. "Lavender honey if you want it. Do you like chocolate chip cookies?"

He didn't quite have to feed Bond, but it was a near thing, placing biscuit after biscuit into his hand. Bond chewed and sipped and swallowed and didn't seem to be there, really, until Q reached out and thumbed away some chocolate that had collected at the corner of Bond's mouth.

James's eyes really focused for the first time, settling cold and weary on Q's face. Q licked the chocolate off his thumb and waited.

"I went off mic," Bond said. The words fell out of his mouth like stones.

Q nodded. The mission had involved a fairly standard seduction, James romancing the wife of a businessman with some highly suspect connections. They were in Barcelona; her husband was in Los Angeles. An intimate dinner, a nightcap in her hotel room. Q had not objected when Bond went off audio; he found Bond's on-duty sex dull and depressing rather than titillating or even embarrassing. 

One leaden word, one bitter stone at a time, Bond got the story out. The husband had returned, beyond all expectation. Had been tracking them, no doubt. He'd caught his wife and the agent literally in flagrante, pulled a gun, and fired--probably at James. Instead, he'd caught his wife in the throat, killing her while James was still--

"She bled like a pig," James blurted. "I saw a pig slaughtered once when I was a boy. At a neighbor's farm. They cut its throat and hung it up to bleed out, upside down, and it came out in buckets. She bled all over the pillow--"

His voice choked off. Q tried not to wince, imagining the blood also spraying up into James's face, over his shoulders and chest. Imagined James wiping himself clean after disposing of the two bodies that weren't supposed to be dead and wished he'd been there to do it for James. 

Bond had gotten out, but the husband's goons had pursued him. He'd shot some, gone hand-to-hand with others.The remainder of the mission, which had turned on information he was expecting to get from the wife, was a wash. The husband hadn't even spotted him for an agent, most likely, just acted out of jealous rage. And a woman was dead and--

"I felt her die, while I was fucking her," he said. The tears were starting to well down his face. "It felt like she was coming."

Q shoved away the tray and pulled James against his chest. James let him. He felt himself rocking back and forth, like a mother with a hurt child, and wondered if he could really help, if this instinctive reaction was doing any good. When James drew away, Q allowed it, then wiped his face with some tissues, trying to be as un-maternal as possible.

"I need--" James began, and stopped. He looked away.

"James," Q said. He took James's face between his hands so that their eyes met, painful as it was. "Whatever you need--" 

_I'll give you,_ he started to say, and then stopped, because that wasn't true. He couldn't promise that and deliver. More than anything else, James needed truth right now. "Whatever you need, whatever you want, you can ask for. And if it's possible, I'll give it to you." He smoothed his hands over reddish stubble and rumpled gold hair. "If it's not possible, I'll say no, but it'll be all right. I promise." There. That was a promise he could keep."

James looked down, then back up. "I want you to fuck me."

Q's hands began to tremble. He fought to still them. They hadn't done that together with Eve. Bond fucked Eve, of course, and he'd fucked Q, which was beyond brilliant, and once Eve had fucked Q with the strap-on while he sucked Bond, which had entertained Bond very much (and Q rather thought he had come twice in quick succession, even if it wasn't possible, in theory). He'd touched Bond's arse and played with his arsehole, but he hadn't fucked him, hadn't topped him, hadn't even asked if he could put his cock in James Bond. That, he had thought, was beyond the scope of their little arrangement, which was a goodly amount of care and comfort for Bond, and many merry orgasms for all. 

He drew his hands down to Bond's shoulders, and wasn't sure whether it was those shoulders or his hands that trembled. "If that's what you want, James. If that's what you need."

He started by clearing the space, physically, so as to clear it mentally. Took the tray with its crumbs and cups to the kitchen. Took a piss and washed his hands, inspected his fingernails. Drew the covers down the bed. Got out the lube and a condom and put them on the nightstand, at ready. Shed his dressing gown and put his glasses aside, too. 

Q draped himself over James, soft as a blanket, and kissed him. James allowed it, accepted it, without really kissing back. Q stroked his hair, traced the line of his collarbone, drew his fingertips from sternum to abdomen over and over, his mouth never leaving James's mouth. When the kiss began to be returned, when hands that were gentle again wound into his hair, Q moved one hand to James's cock and found it not fully hard, but rousing. That would do.

He took his kisses away from James's mouth, which was softer now but more whole, to his throat. He could have spent another hour on James's neck and throat, he loved it so, but he didn't think they had an hour to spend. What the devil time was it, anyway? It didn't matter. He was on leave, officially, and this--this wasn't part of the job.

James stroked his hair, rhythmically, as Q's lips followed the tracings of his fingers along the clavicle, down the breastbone, over the belly. He didn't yet suggest that James should open his legs, just settled over his thighs and breathed sweetly on the head of his cock, running a loose fist up and down the shaft.

James permitted himself a soft groan. Q took in the head of his cock and fondled it with lips and tongue, letting his hand roam from the shaft to James's bollocks, to his smooth inner thighs, back to his scrotum and the humid hollow behind it. Without prompting James slid down, groaning again, or sighing, and opening his legs to let Q lie between them.

This wasn't the first time he'd played with James's arse while sucking him. He just sucked a little less intently, touched a little more purposefully, used more lube than before. Bond's noises of response came more frequently as he worked one and then two fingers in, to the first joint and then further, the whole length of his fingers, drawing back to find the prostate and stroke it, not too demandingly. James threw back his head and trembled all over.

Q sighed as deeply as Bond when he drew his fingers out and wiped them on a towel. They ached from the tension of Bond's body, but it didn't matter. "How do you want me, James? How do we do this?"

Bond's eyes opened, found Q's face, and dropped to his cock, which he was stroking with one hand as he reached for the condom and lube with the other. "I want to see you," was all James said.

It was easy enough to get close and get a proper angle. The head of his cock breached the soft opening, and James moaned. Q stopped and tapped James's ankle. "Get your legs over my shoulders, James. That's right. I'm stronger than you think."

"I know," James murmured.

Q pressed forward, wrapping his hands around the shins that now framed his face. Astonishing to have James Bond, Her Majesty's premier killer, lying spread open beneath him, reduced to one open, vulnerable spot. James wasn't as relaxed as he should be, but Q had been extra generous with the lube. He eased forward bit by bit, humming with the pleasure of it and to let Bond know he was paying attention. The other man's muscular legs quivered, his cock twitched as Q gradually took possession.

When his pubic bone was flush against Bond's buttocks, Q let himself sink down, covering Bond, drawing his legs to wrap around Q's waist. Bond's eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched. Not the response one hoped for from a lover.

"It's me, James," Q murmured, brushing his lips over Bond's jaw. "Your skinny, spotty Quartermaster. The overweening git who made you delicious pizza." He nuzzled James's throat, began to shift backward. "You and I both fucked Moneypenny together, in this very bed." James groaned. Q pressed forward again, gently. "She fucked me with a strap-on as big as your prick while I sucked you off, and I came so hard I cried and then laughed." James made a lighter noise, more like a purr. Q rolled his hips backward and forward again. "I'm your friend, James. And I'm going to fuck you, because you asked me to."

He braced himself on his arms, sliding his hands palm-down under Bond's shoulders, and began to thrust in a gentle but definite rhythm, never taking his eyes from Bond's face. Bond did look more relaxed now, and soon he began to respond to Q's cock, lifting and twisting his hips, taking what he needed. Good, very good, and the intense heat and tightness began to feel good to Q, less tension and more arousal, and James's hard tense face softened, loosened. Q started putting his back into it, a little more snap than thrust, yes, good, but what--

James had seized him with arms and legs and rolled them over. Q was on his back now, but Bond wasn't pulling away. Instead he was resettling himself on Q's cock, powerful things flexing. He was riding Q like a porn god.

Q set his heels and kept his own rhythm, seeking what his body needed now. He was getting close when James suddenly covered his mouth, kissing him with desperation, but with intimacy, too. He was fucking James Bond and Bond was kissing him and this was what both of them wanted.

Bond snapped upright and pulled Q's hand to his cock, both their hands together stroking as Bond spurted and groaned. With a high-pitched wail, so embarrassing, Q arched up one last time and came, Bond quivering but controlled over him.

Bond disengaged a bit faster than usual, but he didn't leave the bed, only groped for the tissues that Q handed over. He slipped off the condom and wiped himself down with the tissues, not just his own come and the lube but Bond's spill on his belly. Sighing, he heard Bond make the same sound.

There were a couple of birdcalls outside the window. Bloody starlings, always whistling. Bond's fingers curled around Q's.

"You're my friend?"

The tentative tone of that question was a bit heart-breaking, but Q squeezed the hand that held his and smiled. "Yes, James. I am."

Bond said nothing, but he was still holding Q's hand as he drifted back to sleep.

There was, Q reflected, one disadvantage to being a Vulcan: The inconvenient pon farr, the time of mating, when Vulcan males could think of nothing but sex, and could die if they didn't get it. It was better that sex be an indulgence rather than a compulsion, a thing one wanted to do rather than a thing one was obliged to do. And better that one's partners were people one chose, rather than a life-saving arrangement.

Well, he had been something of a life-saving arrangement for Bond tonight. Or was it this morning? But that was all right, because James was his friend, and he was James's. He was willing to do a good deal for his friends.


End file.
